


Double Blind / Catching Shadows

by irisbleufic



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: London, M/M, Voyeurism, Watching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-15
Updated: 2009-07-15
Packaged: 2018-01-02 11:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1056321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Crowley doesn't mention the alley, because he's not good at explaining why he does the things he does. Like walk a block out of his way just so he can reach the bookshop by coming down the back alley, where there's brick upon dingy brick until the solid wall of the building breaks and there's the inexplicable, narrow floor-to-ceiling window. It's rarely covered, because Aziraphale isn't good at remembering to draw the blind.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Double Blind / Catching Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written and posted to LJ in July of 2009.

 

**Double Blind**

Crowley doesn't mention the alley, because he's not good at explaining why he does the things he does. Like walk a block out of his way just so he can reach the bookshop by coming down the back alley, where there's brick upon dingy brick until the solid wall of the building breaks and there's the inexplicable, narrow floor-to-ceiling window. It's rarely covered, because Aziraphale isn't good at remembering to draw the blind.

Presumably, it would've been put there to facilitate side-street displays: stacks of books or other wares, but, strangely, Aziraphale doesn't seem to have thought of that, either. There _are_ a few books arranged quite neatly on the low ledge, but they're dust-covered enough to suggest that they're exiles rather than prime items placed for purposes of tempting.

Except Crowley is _very_ tempted.

It's not to say that he's been hankering after a volume of American sport statistics dating to the years between 1918 and 1988. On the contrary, that book could be put to some interesting use. And it's not to say a full directory of rock albums released from 1955 up to the present wouldn't have any merit, either. It's what's _beyond_ those books, what he can see as he passes in those few precious seconds.

Aziraphale's desk is parallel with the window, and Aziraphale, in profile, is bent low over the _Telegraph_ crossword, brow knit in concentration as he neglects his cocoa. Crowley can smell it, glass be damned. There's nothing like Cadbury's.

And the taste of it, well—he would sooner have that off the angel's lips.

*****

Any time Aziraphale catches himself wondering at what an impractical creature the demon can be, he needs only remind himself that Crowley did not, after all, _elect_ to live in a first-floor flat. Ground-level would've made tasks such as this infinitely easier—but then, guiltily, Aziraphale has to admit that what he's doing isn't strictly a task. Spying has not been on his roster of duties for some years now.

And so he perches as he is, stock-still, cursing his mortal body's low center of gravity. He's farther off than he'd like to be, of course, but his eyesight and Crowley's drawn curtains compensate somewhat for the distance. Crowley's bedroom emits a curiously soft orange glow, framing the demon's gently bent silhouette and pale features in an almost golden cast. Crowley reads at night: book after book, subject upon subject.

It steals Aziraphale's breath.

And he wonders what good it would do if he were to start adding to the stack more actively, pressing tomes into Crowley's strangely careful hands as he takes his leave of the shop, day after day, week after week. He's done it only on rare occasions.

He wonders if, like those books, he might come to lie upon that second, empty pillow.

 

 

**Catching Shadows**

Aziraphale doesn't mention the fleeting shadow he catches out of the corner of his eye some evenings as he sits working on a crossword (or cooking the books, as Crowley might say, on his computer). He'd never understood what the tall, narrow window was _for_ , but he hadn't been able to justify the expense of knocking it out and bricking it up. So the window had stayed, and books he'd deemed unsaleable had come to call the low, dusty ledge of a sill home. In perhaps a decade's time, the stack had grown only three or four high. It was enough to block perhaps from the feet up to the knees of an average passer-by, of which he did not get many down that side of the building—although he had once found some used sharps scattered in the dust and discreetly disposed of them. He doesn't like interfering with other people's business.

The first time he'd noticed, he'd been working on the _Guardian_ crossword for a bit of variety. Dusk had nearly fallen—early, given that it was late autumn—so the dark shape that lingered for a moment before passing had, even in his peripheral vision, possessed a decidedly human shape. One could always hope they'd come back the next day and inquire about one of the misfit books. Aziraphale _did_ so hope he'd been wrong about them, and about the shape. It had seemed...familiar.

The second time he'd noticed movement in the alley outside, he'd actually had the blind drawn and had only seen bits and pieces of the form. It had remained still for a good long time, and Aziraphale had not dared to look away from the computer screen, half blinded by row after row of green calculations against electronic blackness. A man, definitely, or perhaps a reasonably tall woman—but not quite six feet in height. Not far off his own height, come to it. And it had the tendency to shift slightly from side to side, as if keeping light on its feet, ready to flee at any moment. Aziraphale had wondered vaguely if the culprit responsible for the sharps had returned, and if he ought to worry about his window staying intact. Still, it had been the sense of familiarity that had prevented him from rising to knock on the glass and deliver a stern lecture on minding one's own business. If Heaven had been spying on him, well— _let_ them. The paperwork would bore Gabriel to tears.

The third time, it's mid-afternoon and the sun is inordinately bright. For that reason alone, he hasn't drawn the blinds. It's far more pleasant to let the back room flood with natural light than to justify the electricity bill. He hasn't bothered to flip the shop sign today, which means he's likely to face a peppering of disappointed knocks on the front door throughout the day. It's as he's about to take a sip of his cooling cocoa that something darts too swiftly past the window: too swiftly to be innocent, too swiftly to be _human_. Aziraphale rises to investigate, but all he can see in either direction is empty alleyway and tourist-addled sections of street at either end.

He returns to his seat and resumes the _Telegraph_ crossword. Approximately twenty minutes later, there's a rapping pattern at the front door that he knows by heart and, even when he doesn't particularly _want_ to, is bound by oath to answer.

"Come in, dear boy!" he shouts, unlocking the door with a thought. Crowley could have done it on his own, Aziraphale supposes, but the demon is too polite for that.

"You're probably going to be out of business by spring," Crowley remarks, strolling into the back room with his sunglasses already tucked in one immaculate breast pocket. He's taken to not bothering with them when they're in private, which is strangely reassuring. Aziraphale supposes that having faced the End of the World together must count for something. Or, rather, he _hopes_ that it must.

"Nonsense," says Aziraphale, reaching to tug over the stool that's generally used for reaching books in high places. "I've lots of money in savings. Please, sit down."

"And under the moth-eaten mattress upstairs," Crowley mutters, adjusting himself awkwardly on the low seat. _He's all angles_ , Aziraphale thinks wonderingly. _Is it that he's been more affected by all of this than I realize, or have I simply never noticed?_

"Don't be ridiculous." Aziraphale lets the back of his hand brush the untouched mug of cocoa, imagining a flare of heat. There. _Better_. "Would you like it?" he asks, transforming the gesture into one of indication. "I've just made it. There was a bit of sleet this morning. You look as if you've caught a chill."

"Sun's out now," Crowley says, one careful hand already wrapped around the mug.

Aziraphale has always known him to prefer tea, but he'll touch mocha on occasion. He takes a sip, which suddenly deepens into a surprising gulp. Any human would've sustained first-degree burns to the tongue and throat, possibly worse. Crowley hisses into the mug, a faint, startling sound of pleasure. Aziraphale tries to concentrate on four down, but all he can think is that he'll keep Cadbury's about from now on.

"Is there cream in this?" asks Crowley, suspiciously. "It's really rich."

"Maybe," Aziraphale murmurs, pursing his lips. _Emotion sometimes best left undiscussed, six letters_. He presses his pencil-point into the newsprint.

"It's 'desire' you're looking for," says Crowley, casually, with that semi-prudish undertone to his voice that suggests that he wouldn't know, _really_. And Aziraphale supposes that he wouldn't, given his incredible aversion to human intimacy.

"Thank you," Aziraphale replies, penciling in the offending word. It's in the way Crowley's holding himself—stiffly, with just a hint of guilty discomfort. He's done something that he feels he shouldn't have, and now it's written in the slightest of his movements. He sets down the empty mug with a twitch, withdrawing as if burnt.

Aziraphale had known all along, perhaps—or perhaps he hadn't dared dream it.

"There was a new shipment this morning," Aziraphale says slowly. "One of my regular suppliers. There were a considerable number of nineteenth-century specimens, a few of them from America. Has that Twain chap not been a current fascination of yours?"

"You might say I'm interested, yes," Crowley replies, as if measuring his own words with equal care. "I finished that collection you gave me a couple of months ago."

"I've got some novels this time." Aziraphale doesn't dare breathe.

Crowley turns his head, as if he can't help it. "Such as?"

" _A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur's Court_ , for one. You may appreciate the satire."

Crowley's eyes are bright in spite of his nonchalant mask. "Would you mind terribly—"

"My dear, think nothing of it," says Aziraphale, already coaxing the volume out of his top drawer. It's not in pristine condition, which makes his trepidation at handing out such a valuable item—even to Crowley—just about bearable. "Take your time," he adds, pressing the book into Crowley's already-open hands. His index fingers brush the sides of Crowley's thumbs, a perfectly executed accidental touch.

Crowley twitches, burnt again, but his lips turn up in a half-smile.

"Thanks, angel. Now, are you done with that thing or not?"

Aziraphale finally releases his breath. "Not quite. Why?"

"I'd hoped to tempt you to lunch," says Crowley, weakly, as if he fears the line is getting old. He tucks the small book into some unseen inner pocket of his jacket, almost reverently. Aziraphale's chest tightens, the action for him imbued with significance. Crowley's hand lingers in the folds slightly longer than is necessary.

"I'd be delighted," Aziraphale replies, knowing that Crowley knows he's been caught.

*****

_Ohshitohshitohshit_ , is all Crowley can think as he drives home from lunch. _Shit!_

He'd have got caught in the long run, he supposes—although he'd rather hoped it would have _stayed_ in the long run. He wasn't ready to face up to the fact that the angel had basically outed him as a peeping Tom without ever having explicitly leveled the accusation. When it came to sending people on guilt-trips, Aziraphale was a real professional. Of course, that was the worst part about the situation: Crowley didn't get the sense that Aziraphale was trying to guilt him at _all_. On the contrary, there'd been a whiff of anxiety to Aziraphale's words, and underneath that, the fragile hush he'd come to recognize as longing. He'd kept company with it for too long _not_ to know.

On getting home, he does what any sensible person would do: pours himself a glass of white wine and settles down for some bad television. The weight of the book is reassuring in his jacket, as if to say, _Don't worry—I'll be right here, just waiting till tonight_. Only it comes out in Aziraphale's voice in his head, and he can't concentrate.

It's broadly true that Crowley can't stand being watched, and he's usually very good at knowing when he is. If you're a demon, suspicion is trained into you from day one. Paranoia, however—Crowley seemed to have got that as an added bonus, and he had it in _spades_. He keeps his bedroom curtains drawn most of the time, as copious amounts of sleep require copious amounts of privacy. They're sheer curtains, though, as the letting in of a bit of light is never objectionable. When he reads late into the evening, he feels hidden, yet able to glimpse just enough.

He feels kind of like that right now, alone in his living room with Aziraphale's book absorbing the worst of his hammering heartbeat and the wineglass starting to perspire. And the pieces begin to slide into place, like some unholy jigsaw that's lain scattered across his spotless white carpet for far, far too long.

What's amazing, of course, is the thought that Aziraphale would even _think_ of risking a forty-foot fall from one of the ancient, sturdy trees across the courtyard from his window. The potential for wings aside, Aziraphale is kind of a klutz.

He shivers a bit, the wine going straight to his head. A very _clever_ klutz.

And so it's not till that night that the feeling returns, not till he's dressed in a pair of over-modest cotton pyjamas and well into the fifth chapter of _A Connecticut Yankee_ that the vague prickle at the base of his neck—like a match passed across his phantom scales—comes calling. Calmly, he replaces the scrap of recycled memo-paper he's been using as a bookmark and sets the book aside on one of his pillows.

There's a hush of anticipation as he parts the curtains, sure in the knowledge that he's being watched. The scored metal of the balcony is cool beneath his feet, except where it's covered by the antique Persian throw-rug that's on its last moth-and-damp-eaten threads. The weather has been chilly with intermittent rain, fairly kind for early November. He moves to the railing and takes hold of it, pulling himself up on tiptoe as he squints. The tree rustles faintly in the nighttime breeze, one telltale flash confirming his suspicions. He's fairly certain that bark isn't tartan-patterned.

Still, Aziraphale is better at hiding than Crowley would have guessed.

"You might as well come down," he calls. "I hear we're due for more sleet!"

"I heard otherwise," Aziraphale shouts back, clearly mortified. "Just out for some air!"

"We can sit out here, if you like," says Crowley, stepping back to indicate his balcony with an expansive gesture. "It's small, but it'll do. And there's less of a chance something will end up broken."

Even at the distance and with considerable green obscurement, Crowley can see the angel stiffen where he stands, arms braced on a branch somewhat at chest-height. His feet shift a little on the large one he's been using as a perch, as if he's uncomfortable.

"I haven't fallen yet," Aziraphale replies reasonably, "and besides. I've got wings."

"So have I," Crowley says, fighting the urge to grin. "I'll come to you if you won't come to me. I'm sure that tree is big enough for both of us."

"I'm sure it's _not_ ," snaps Aziraphale, and there's a soft _whoosh_ disguised as the wind. He's standing beside Crowley, glasses askew, with a number of twigs stuck in his hair. Without thinking, Crowley picks them out one by one.

"There," he murmurs. "Now you look respectable."

Aziraphale stiffens again, his eyes briefly considering his unfortunate coat.

"Now, I see no reason why you should find—"

"Never mind," Crowley says. "I think we should go inside."

Wordlessly, Aziraphale follows him. It isn't as if Crowley's given him a choice.

*****

Crowley's bedroom is much as Aziraphale had imagined it would be: white, pristine, and elegant. Crowley had never made any secret of his fastidiousness and his preference for minimalism, and he had tried on more than a few occasions to convince Aziraphale that the bookshop could do with a similar overhaul. Aziraphale had always politely declined, in spite of the fact that Crowley had even once offered to pay for it.

"Not what you were expecting?" asks Crowley, anxiously. Aziraphale can't help but notice that _Connecticut Yankee_ is lying on Crowley's spare pillow, looking quite smug.

"Actually, rather near to it," Aziraphale says, permitting himself a smile. The situation is ridiculous, actually, and turn-about _is_ fair play. Suddenly, he feels as if there's no need to hide from their behavior any longer. They've canceled each other out.

"I'm glad you approve," replies, with something of an odd expression. He looks as if he'd be chewing his lip if he wasn't so dead-set on feigning composure. "I, er—"

"Yes, so I see," Aziraphale observes, shedding his coat on a nearby chair before casually approaching the bed. "If I remember correctly, this book is simultaneously deeply absurd and unexpectedly moving. Have you found it to be so?" He picks it up and leafs through a few pages before aimlessly setting it down on the bedside table.

Crowley rubs the back of his neck, as if he can't believe this is happening.

"It's definitely absurd. Whoever heard of insects crawling around inside knights' armor? They _did_ know how to take the blasted stuff off, not to mention how to _bathe_."

"Satire, as I said," muses Aziraphale, taking a seat on the bed. "Ooo, comfy!"

Crowley looks as if he might spontaneously combust on the spot.

"Can I, um, offer you any tea or—"

"No," said Aziraphale, patting the spot beside him on the bed. "Your company is enough, thank you. Why didn't you tell me you liked reading so well?"

"Time? Opportunity?" Crowley echoes, disbelieving, but sits down beside him anyway, a careful six inches away. "Because it would have given you the satisfaction?"

"I can always count on you to lighten the mood," says Aziraphale, his heart catching as he leans over to brush Crowley's cheek and press a soft kiss against his mouth.

Crowley flails in surprise, but Aziraphale is quite well prepared. It's easy enough to catch his elbows on the up-swing ( _sharp, so very sharp_ ) and use the leverage to ease him forward, until Crowley sags and melts helplessly into the kiss, as if he'd known that was exactly how it would be. He shifts with a bit of coaxing, all bony knees and hipbones, into Aziraphale's lap. Such a wonder, what with his healthy appetite.

"Devious," Crowley sighs. "Is this what you'd been planning?"

"Yes," Aziraphale admits, deciding for once that honesty is the better part of valor.

*****

To Crowley's slight disappointment, Aziraphale doesn't taste like Cadbury's. He tastes like wind, leaves, and the faintest touch of sleet. It's possible, too, that he still tastes of the champagne they'd shared at lunch, but at any rate it's only in trace amounts.

And now that Aziraphale has made the first move, he's free of all obligation to feel chagrined over what he's done. For what they've _both_ done. The knowledge sings through him with each brush of Aziraphale's inquisitive fingers: at his nape, at his sides, at the small of his back. Uncontrollably, Crowley shivers.

"Shall I close the door, my dear?" Aziraphale breathes, pausing in his ministrations.

"No," says Crowley, shoving him insistently back against the pillows.

There's a moment of still, strangled confusion that wells up from the angel like a wild thing too long tethered in the dark. His kisses grow deeper, more desperate, and it's all that Crowley can do to keep up with the paper-weathered hands fumbling open the buttons of his pyjama top with alarming efficiency. He feels naked already in the dim light of his bedside lamp, too exposed for words. Aziraphale leans back, apparently to admire the view, and runs trembling fingers from Crowley's collarbone to the waistband of his trousers. Crowley's thoughts slip away, no longer coherent.

It's true that humans do this, he _knows_ that humans do this, he's _required_ to know that humans do this, and very often to cheat and degrade each other. Just because that awareness is technically part of his job doesn't mean that he has to _like_ it, but suddenly, he's not feeling so averse to the proceedings. Far from it. Perhaps it's that Aziraphale isn't _exactly_ human, and neither is he. Or perhaps that it's there's no cheating or degradation involved, at least not as far as he can tell. He's actually naked now, and, with one startled gasp and a sort of slithering sensation between them, Aziraphale is naked, too. It almost doesn't compute.

"That's cheating!" he manages to shout, but it comes out as more of a squeak.

"Maybe," Aziraphale whispers, tightening his arms around Crowley. " _Please_ —"

"Oh, don't beg. I hate that," Crowley sighs, surrendering all too gladly.

Aziraphale's body is warm and solid beneath him, soft in all the places that he _isn't_. It's like lying on a living, breathing, _unbelievably_ arousing body pillow that's capable of responding to every touch he's capable of dishing out—which admittedly means one hand tangled manically in Aziraphale's hair and the other dragging its determined way from the back of Aziraphale's thigh to hook under his knee. There's no such thing as too close, never mind that Crowley is pretty sure they're already as close as it's humanly possible to get without causing each other _too_ much discomfort. But at the moment he's so desperately hard that it can't _possibly_ matter, and Aziraphale is in no better condition and _oh, God, if he doesn't stop **moving** —_

 _Well_ , Crowley thinks, when he _can_ think again. _So much for making it last_.

Aziraphale doesn't seem disappointed with the results. Far from it. He's curled around Crowley so tightly that Crowley isn't sure which skin is his anymore, which is something he can't help but wonder if humans experience or not. They've got a few ethereal advantages in this game, such as the ability to manipulate their surroundings and even their own composition if they so wish. Crowley yawns, wondering what it'd be like with wings. Or even scales. The possibilities are limitless. He shivers with it.

"My dear," Aziraphale murmurs. "You're _cold_."

"No, 'm not," Crowley insists, yawning. "Shuttup. Sleep."

It'll be nicer than waking up next to the book—and less painful, too.


End file.
